


Dear Mr Bäckström

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Gen, Killer!Nicke, Lawful Neutral Killer, M/M, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 22:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17394746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Everyone had their opinion of Mr Bäckström, mainly because he looked nothing at all like an assassin, except he very much did.





	Dear Mr Bäckström

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from the kink meme, but there, the formatting screwed up.  
> Please read with caution: this contains off-screen violence, off-screen murder, and implications of both. Basically nasty and bloody.  
> Also please remember: this is fiction and does not reflect on the real Niklas Backstrom.

There were a lot of rumours about Mr Bäckström – but then, there always have been some. It was difficult not to participate in gossiping, not when Mr Bäckström was so – contained, crisp. A blank, white wall, the perfect background for all thoughts and nightmares to be projected on. 

He did cut a figure in his suits: they were always well-pressed and handmade and bespoke: fitting him perfectly, their crispness turning the sharp lines of his face and the width of his body into something else, something terrifying. 

He hadn’t always been like that – when he’d started out, young and naïve, he’d more or less stumbled into everything, round face and wide eyes and a hesitant grip on his gun. No matter the money and the apparent luck to him: no child could cheat their way out of this, fighting for survival. 

Most didn’t make it beyond half a year, too inexperienced to keep playing this game for any longer than that. But Mr Bäckström had survived. Had been ruthless, and far too good at – seeing things, at clicking just that fraction of a second earlier than everyone else. And with guns, that was half of an eternity. 

The softness had soon followed afterwards, melting off his face: even if it stayed mismatched, even if Mr Bäckström never lost the thickness of his thighs nor the width of his shoulders or his belly, he did loose the round youth clinging to him. The downiness, what one needed to still go to their grandmother’s and get their cheeks pinched. No one would dare to even think as much as pinching Mr Bäckström’s cheeks. 

It’s his eyes, probably: sharp and cool they sit in his face, like scalpels, digging under finger nails and prying the truth free. He’s probably done just that, too, not that anyone would know. 

Because that was Mr Bäckström: he never talked about what he did, how he did it. He had never bragged, had never tried to take up anyone on their dick comparisons, never, no matter how much anyone got into his face: always, he kept his calm.

As long as Mr Bäckström had been in this career, only two people had tried to take a shit in his lane. The first one had been rather to the beginning of his career: the youngest child of the Lundqvist clan, desperately trying to finally make a name of his own and posturing, staking clames, trying to get Mr Bäckström to submit.

But Mr Bäckström’s silence had rigged Lundqvist’s tense aggression higher and higher, until he’d screamed into Mr Bäckström’s face, spittle flying, how much of a stupid coward he was. And that had been one of the nicer things, too, Lundqvist flying off his handle, until he’d punched Mr Bäckström – before his older brother could drag him out of the room. 

There were still enough rumors around, each more horrifying than the last, and most of them were true.  
It was true that two weeks later, some remains of Lundqvist junior had been dragged from Stockholm’s waters, just far enough outside that they’d been discovered by accidents, quite obviously days after they’d been placed there. They’d been partially – nibbled on, and no one was sure if the missing parts were due to rotting off, getting dragged off by animals, or if they’d never been dumped in the waters at all.  
There was no evidence who did it, and Stockholm citizens were horrified and mystified at the apparent murder. 

After that, no one dared to cross Mr Bäckström, and everyone referred to him by this name, and nothing else.

Mr Bäckström grew in importance rather quickly, mainly because he navigated the mob and their respective bosses perfectly well. He’d conclude agreements with every mob and fulfil his contract to the letter, no matter what got written into it. Be it making it look like an accident, be it making it painful, be it a revenge or anything else under the sun, Mr Bäckström did it and he did it exactly as his clients paid him for. 

It did not come cheaply, of course. In fact, he probably was one of Sweden’s most expensive killers – and that meant a lot, because none of them were cheap to start with. But paying for Mr Bäckström meant paying for excellence and a job done perfectly. No one worked like Mr Bäckström. No one.

Mob bosses could go to sleep with their spouses – and then said spouse would wake to a corpse. The most terrifying mobsters could strike fear into the hearts of their opponents, no one able to get them, except one day, they died: killed by a weapon malfunction, a poisoned drink, a gas leak, shot. It didn’t matter how one prepared themselves, how much protection was amassed, how skilled one was: if Mr. Bäckström had a contract, that person would die. 

Mr Bäckström kept three rules:  
1) No children, no pregnant people  
2) Every contract will be fulfilled  
3) Never a part of a mob 

And he kept to those rules, religiously. If nothing was holy to that man: these rules were. Of course, every mob, every mobster had tried to convince him differently – of course that had happened during the years. Be it that someone needed their pregnant mistress gone to save their marriage, or that someone had put a contract hit on their husband only to realize they’d made a mistake and nulling the contract. Didn’t matter. Once a contract meant that the contract would be fulfilled, at every cost.  
Literally every cost. 

Most mobs that failed to have him break his rules tried to recruit him, after they’d seen his results. They all failed. Mr Bäckström never worked for a single mob, and unlike most other killers, he also never grew close to a single mob – most did, by accident. It happened, over the years, sometimes by accident or as a mean of protection from other mobs. Mr Bäckström kept taking contracts from everyone, mob or ordinary citizen. 

Those that paid him decided who would get killed, and those who had hired him today could get killed by tomorrow’s contract. It was a cold, iron justice, and Mr Bäckström went, like an avenging angel, except that no blood on the doorjamb would ever stop him. 

Sometimes, rarely, he’d take unpaid contracts, and no one quite knew how or under which conditions. The few who asked never got an answer, only a barely-there smile and the polite recommendation to perhaps use someone else if they would like it cheaper. 

(No one did bother to look at those unpaid contracts or keep a list of them – if they even bothered to check for them, so a lot of them also slipped by unnoticed. As such, no one noticed who benefited from them: the seventeen-year-old with her three siblings who’d inherited the family house from her violent and suddenly-gone father; the two orphans whose landlord had gone missing and thus couldn’t throw them out of their family house anymore; the man who’d taken over the firm he’d co-founded and that now didn’t contain his rapist anymore….and so many more. No one of them had any money, no one of them had any influence or importance beyond their existence: their ordinary lives were out of the way of organized crimes.)


End file.
